to be so serious, and yet so sensual? Isis wanted to stroke his face, to explore every masculine dip and curve. Satin skin stretched tightly over clearly defined muscles. His broad shoulders blocked out the lamplight behind him, and Isis imagined she could feel the glide of his shadow against her skin as he undressed.
She admired the crisp dark hair disappearing into the waistband of his jeans as his hands went to his belt buckle. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and her heart beat loud and fast as she saw a wedge of dark hair behind his fingers.
Heart thudding, Isis looked her fill. “You’re beautiful.”
His cheeks darkened and his lips tightened. “Different reaction in a second; brace yourself.”
She sat up on her elbows, barely registering his words, fascinated by the striptease just a few feet away. She’d never seen anything as sexy as Thorne’s slow reveal of his rock-hard body. The wedge between the teeth of the zipper widened to frame the long curve of his erect penis, which brushed the taut muscles of his belly.
Already unbearably turned on, Isis’s breath caught as her body pulsed and moistened in response to the visual stimuli. Her hands might not be as steady as Thorne’s, but she too scrambled to get naked. Reaching behind her back to unclasp her bra, she watched Thorne’s jeans inch down a little more, showing a lot more. Dear God. The man was built… large, she saw, fascinated as he exposed the rest of himself to her hungry gaze.
Feeling as sensual and sexy as his eyes telegraphed, she tossed her bra over her head to land somewhere on the floor behind the sofa. Feeling buoyant and heavy, giddy and unbearably focused, Isis slid both hands down her belly, feeling the softness of her own skin, and the warmth as her skin heated. A hard, unsteady pulse throbbed in her breasts and between her legs.
She might explode from longing, and he’d yet to touch her. Anticipation made her almost delirious, and the brush of her own fingers as she slowly slid the pants down her hips was almost unbearable. The cotton pants had an elastic waistband. Handy. And quick. Lifting her butt without taking her eyes off him, Isis slid the pants and her panties down her legs.
Not knowing where to look first, wanting to run her hands all over him, her gaze tracked up his belly, over his deeply muscled chest, up the strong column of his throat to his tense expression. But his penis drew her gaze like metal to a magnet.
Deep inside, her muscles pulsed in time with her heartbeat. Shifting on the sofa, she held out her arms to him.
His desire for her was evident. Boy howdy was it evident. Her fingers flexed on the sofa cushions. “I want you, Connor James Thorne.” Her voice was unrecognizable, it was so husky and thick with longing. She felt hot, then shivery cold, aware of the rough texture of the cushions beneath her, and the almost imperceptible drift of cool air on her naked body.
His eyes burned like twin green flames as he ran his gaze from her face, over her bare breasts and down her legs. She felt the heat of that look like a physical caress.
The distended cords in his neck visibly throbbed, and a light film of sweat turned his skin to metallic bronze. He looked more powerful than any Egyptian god, sexier than a mortal male had a right to look.
She wanted to feel his heavy body push her deep into the pillows; she needed him to spread her legs and wedge his narrow hips between them. She had to feel his thick shaft deep inside her, and God help her, she couldn’t wait much longer. The suspense was killing her.
“In every way there is,” she admitted softly, “I want you.”
“Yeah, well—” His voice was suddenly tightly neutral. His broad chest rose and fell as he dropped his jeans and any underwear he might’ve been wearing to the floor, kicking them aside. Then he just stood there.
Isis froze, sucking in a horrified breath as she stared, appalled. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and her lips felt numb. “Dear God—”
Her vision blurred, and she had to blink furiously to see him clearly. No wonder he was in pain all the time. Of course he limped. His leg was a mangled mess. The skin angry red, puckered and stitched like a patchwork quilt. There were pins